The Barrows. Another pureblood family from the long lines of Slytherin ancestry. It's 1991, and Elmira and Clyde Barrows' daughter's first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has arrived.
The Wizarding World is not safe to our young O...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞?"
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Well, this week hadn't gone exactly as Ophelia had planned.
Draco had been avoiding her, each day more than the last. She would round a corner, and there he would be, going red as a tomato with a fierce scowl and disappearing round another one. Yesterday, he had dropped his Herbology textbook, not that it mattered, of course, he despised the subject. Too busy prattling on with Parkinson to discern the young Slytherin, Ophelia bent down to the granite flagstones, her fingertips lightly brushing the serrate texture as she picked up the virescent book in her hand, examining the ivory pages, brusque with uncontaminated wealth and money. Clutching her own volume under one arm, she called out to him.
"Draco!" The two classmates' heads snapped towards the young girl in tandem. While Pansy had shot a rather unattractive sneer her way, Draco simply frowned and seized the book from Ophelia's grasp swiftly, hurrying out of sight and leaving the young girl to stand alone in the stiff, stone corridors. Some several days before, a similar occurrence happened, though it was just pure disregard. She had sat with them during mealtime, on the opposite side of Crabbe and Goyle, forcefully stabbing her steamed carrots with a fork, it's prongs impaling the delicate skin more entertainment than Crabbe's disgusting concoction of jam and tuber. Distant laughs and groans of disgust filtered from the other side of the two unruly boys, but she didn't wish to join into the merriment. She didn't know what she'd done wrong to deserve Draco's lack of heeding.
Her eyes drooped low, threatening closure and granting her the ability to drift away from the problems which resided in her physical world. Her ethereal state, however, she envisioned herself among the magnolias, a constant in her dreams, devoting herself to another one of the many books in her father's archive. She found herself reading an old tale, a remarkably tragic one, indeed. But through the lies and deceit that the story told, there was love. A discouraged and confusing kind, but it seeped through the cracks like ink bled through a page, it's sable liquid staining the page with indelible infliction. The sardonic prince and naive princess, so enraptured by one another it would eventually drive them apart to the vexatious state of madness: one a slayer, the other a tribute to their own credulity. She revisited the book often in her dreams, hoping it would end in a happy one, the two lovers spending eternity in each other's arms forever, only to be met with the same depressing fate that brought her to tears.
